Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirureFor some reason, these two lines from the poem – which do so much to create the image of a love apparently full of pain and contradictory impulses – have stayed with me for many years, while the rest of the poem has not.
Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé
My beautiful love, my dear love, you who tear me apart,
I carry you in myself like a wounded bird.
The ending, which sounds like a punch line from a French chanson, is actually on the flat side:
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureuxThe very last line could become more prosy to reflect the French more directly, e.g. "But it is the love between the two of us" or "But it is the love the two of us share," but that doesn't do much, does it?
Mais c'est notre amour à tous les deux
There is no happy love,
But this is our love.